


it

by Emeka



Series: mega-fucked stuff [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Cuntboy, Gaslighting, Grooming, Half-Sibling Incest, Humiliation, Kidnapping, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Revenge Sex, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22031302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeka/pseuds/Emeka
Summary: He didn't really care about his mother. He'd hated her as much as she hated him. But he hates seeing the life he could have had. Should have had.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: mega-fucked stuff [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1320089
Comments: 32
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

He stares down at the piece he still can’t believe is lying here in his room. A mixture of apprehension, and excitement swirls in his gut in a nauseating mess. What is the first thing he will say to it? What is the first thing it will say to him?

It is so pretty, the way he had always imagined it to be. The image he had in his mind all his life—although this child is only about nine years to his nineteen—is of a coldly beautiful, radiant being, like some kind of angel. Something wholly out of his grasp. Yet, here it is. Curled-up and tied to his bed by its tiny ankles. They felt like matchsticks when he was handling them earlier. He knew he could break them if he liked.

Oh. It’s squirming a little. Its knees rub together and squeak over the hardwood floor. He’d considered a blanket but didn’t know when it would wake up, and wanted a little distance when it did. Not that he physically feared it.

It flutters its eyes, squeezes them shut as its whole face scrunches up, then stretches—long and leisurely, as if it was at home, safe in its own bed. Then, in just a moment as its limbs touch the cold cold floor again, it jerks and he sees it _realize_ in a few steps that something is wrong. Its eyes open wide—violet wisteria—and it jolts up, head whipping around like a startled puppy.

Then it looks to him, eyes open and big for maximum manipulation. Its mouth is trembling already. “Who are you?”

It asks more—whereisthiswhathappened--but a rush of noise fills his ears after just the one. It doesn’t know. Of _course_ it doesn’t know. Why would it, in its perfect fairytale life? But he’ll have plenty of time to make it know.

He kneels down beside it and takes in its appearance with awed disgust. All the days he spent watching it from afar don’t compare. Even unconscious wasn’t the same. Expression makes all the difference, he supposes. Hair like a fluffy blonde-nearly-white halo, even eyelashes and eyebrows the same color, face perfectly made like a doll, so pale he can see the tracery of veins beneath where the skin is thinnest. “Your father raped my mother.”

“Huh?” it says quizzically. Either it’s too young or too sheltered to understand, or it seems like too much of a non-sequiter to grasp. Sheltered. Everything about it has seemed sheltered from the time a few years back he first knew of it. Limos to and from the private school it went to. Diamond bracelets on its careless child’s wrist. The schoolmates that followed it around like a game of follow the leader. The heavy velvet frock in wine-red he has benevolently allowed on for now. 

He yanks it to the floor with a fistful of hair. It barely has time to squeal in pain before it's squealing for another reason; his hand going up the frock, not touching anything yet except the inner thigh, though he can feel the heat of its sex next to his fingers. Not wise to be so rough so soon, when knocking it unconscious was an accident to begin with. It was meant to be just an abduction but he’d mishandled his package out of nerves and banged it into his car door frame.

But if he’s not a little rough, he’s not sure what else he might do. “Aren’t you old enough for sex ed? Your rich fuck father stuck his _cock_ into my mother’s _cunt_ and knocked her up.” It’s still staring at him uncomprehendingly but he goes on in rambling, wavering breaths. “Then her family disowned her and she disowned _me_ since the day I was born hating me and hating me and he married some other rich bitch, some barely legal heiress, and finally popped out a proper, legitimate little crotchgoblin instead.”

Its mouth makes weird little movements but no sound comes out. It keeps staring with wide, trembling irises. Maybe things are starting to sink in. A pre-tear glossiness covers the orbs. Maybe it’s about to throw a tantrum.

His grip relaxes slowly. “How does your head feel?”

It sniffles. “Hurts.”

As nice as slamming its head into the floor over and over sounds, it wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t make up for what he’s been through. He sits back, big enough that he can pin it just by sitting on its legs. The ridiculous velvet bunched up around its thighs gives him another idea. A kid this sheltered would be body-shy, unless it even has maids to help it bathe. “Take off your dress.”

“Wha? No!” it shouts immediately, too stupid to even consider the situation it’s in. Guess all that fancy schooling doesn’t amount to much after all. “If you’re mad at my father”--ugh, father, of course it calls him that--”then why are you doing this to _me_?”

Because the children always pay for the sins of the father. “If you can’t figure that out yourself, you really do deserve this. Now take it off.”

“No!”

He pinches a leg. Hard. No head injury here to stop him. It yelps and tries to jerk away, efforts redoubling frantically as he pinches a line up the increasingly tender flesh until finally it grabs the hem of its dress and pulls it straight up over its head. It gets stuck actually coming off since the back doesn’t cooperate so well, but he’s patient. It’s worth waiting for. It’s just as pretty in the body even this young, overall slender as a doe with adorable pads of baby fat that make it look older here than it really is. Curvy, almost. 

__He pulls the marker out of his jeans pocket and unsnaps in one fluid threatening motion, just as if he was unsheathing a sword instead. The smell stings his nose. “What’s your name?” He knows, of course, and if this brat knew anything it would know that already, but it still opens its mouth to answer._ _

__“A--”_ _

“Doesn’t matter what it _was_. What is it now?”

It stares at him doubtfully, lower lip starting to pooch out.

“Well, I’ll tell you, shit for brains.” He digs the point into its soft belly and writes in short jagged strokes in time with his voice. “Slut. Meat. Cunt. Toilet.” Belly, chest, ribs, lower belly above his cotton-candy color boxer-briefs. “That’s all you’ll answer to here, understand?”

“Y-yes...”

His handiwork looks pretty good. The scrawls stand out amazingly on its skin. “What’s your name?”

“Umm... meat?”

“You sound like someone asked you what you want for dinner. Say it like you mean it.”

“I... I’m meat!”

“Better!”

“I’m Meat!”

“And a piece of meat,” he says, grabbing its waist, so neat and dolllike his thumbs almost meet, “can be touched by anyone, anywhere, right?” So delicate. He could squeeze and crush its guts, roll them up its body like a tube of toothpaste. His fingers tighten and relax as the thought floats by. 

“But I’m not meat though,” it says meekly. 

“Oh? Can you stop me from handling you like it, then?” He explores over the messages he’s left, and it pushes against his forearms to no avail, but its expression is more frustrated than scared. Maybe it’s too sheltered to meaningfully comprehend the danger it’s in. It feels as soft as it looks. The skin feels almost like it will melt away to his fingerpads. It doesn’t even react in a particular way when he rubs his thumbs against its nipples. “You can’t. So you _are_ meat.”

“Well, who are you--”

He diverts the question with a quick tickle tickle under its smooth, hairless arms, drawing a quick shout of laughter and causing its body to wriggle under him like a provocative little minx, all to and fro, with its arms clasped futilely about itself and cheeks pinkening already with exertion and laughter. It makes him a bit hard.

He wants to build up to _that_ , though. Sure, there’s some appeal to making it into minced meat right to start with, but if at all possible, he wants to degrade it a different way.

He won’t tell it until that day comes, but he does plan to let it go eventually. Completely broken and traumatized with pain is the lesser option. Rather, he wants it to leave him happy with what he’s done to it. He wants it to go to their _father_ and tell him how much it enjoyed being used by its half-brother.

It’ll require taking things step by step. Probably more fun in the long run, too.

So he doesn’t take out his dick and stuff it full with it, or any of the other things running through his head. His hands tickle down its ribs and sides, pausing for a second over the hip crease leading a faint line into its underwear. The fit is too good for them to have ridden up more than a little, and in the center he sees the almost sexless form of its mound. He was prepared for either, but this is more convenient. Meat looks like just a kid still but if he can hold onto it long enough, he can send it back to dear old dad with an extra surprise.

“Don’t!” Meat snaps suddenly, the moment his fingers wander too close. “That’s private.”

“You’re meat, remember?” he says back, though really he shouldn’t acknowledge it with a response. That will just make it think it can be listened to. “Just a piece of meat. You can’t make me not do anything.”

Meat wriggles even harder to get away but cannot budge from under his body even the slightest inch. Then it tries to sit up and push at him, but all he needs is one hand to the chest to pin it back down. Interestingly, when he looks into its eyes, all he sees is its face scrunched still in frustration. Even the huffy little sounds it makes sounds like no more than that. All it is doing with its resistance is following the rules it has been taught; don’t let anyone see or touch you there. It’s a private place. If it had any real idea of what might happen surely it would be more frightened.

His fingers find a dim warmth over its crotch, muted by the chill of the floor and the room. They familiarize themselves with the feel of its immature sex, forking to run down on the outside of the vulva, then together on the inside. It’s a strange clothed-mushy sensation, too much fabric in the way on such a tiny piece to tell too much anatomy apart. 

He goes slow then quick then hard and light, alert to every change and changing his tempo accordingly. Meat still protests but in between slowing breaths that grow heavier and heavier until they are almost gasps, his flat seedless belly turning concave with each inhale. The edge of his rib cage stands out like a cliff.

Pretty meat, pretty pussy, he can just imagine how it must look. Cotton-candy sweet just like its briefs getting all soft in the middle, pink like its face, begging for a mouth on it to eat it all up and turn it into the red sticky stuff with spit.

When Meat has almost entirely quieted and its back is bent and quivering like a drawn bow, he stops.

And Meat, knowing it is against the rules to ask to be touched there, shivers to itself with eyes closed tight, wiggling languidly back and forth. He wonders how much it knows about the precipice it is on, then makes a mental reminder to tie its hand later. Even if it hasn’t experimented with masturbation, this might give it ideas he doesn’t want it to act on by itself.

He points to his head. “You fine to eat?”

“Ummm...” It squeezes its eyes up at him, with a distant expression that says supper isn’t very close to its mind at the moment. “I was a little sick when I woke up, but...”

“Hold on.” 

He had bought some salads and fruit cups from the gas station in preparation for this. Something inexpensive in case it tried to starve in mutiny. Doesn’t look like that will be a problem now, but it’s just as well, in case it barfs it back up. Not that he’s inclined to spend the money on good food for it anyway. He can barely feed himself.

He sets a plate for himself and eats first. He has no intention of doing anything so weirdly vulnerable as eating in front of it. Since the rooms are practically connected in his cramped house (you could hear a pin drop from one end to the other) he’s not worried about it getting up to anything. Part of him doubts it will even try, it seems just so... unnaturally innocent. It was scared when it woke up in a new place, but it doesn’t seem to fear him, and even had the audacity to scold its captor. It’s like it can’t conceive of anything bad happening to it.

The thought makes him a little uneasy, and angry all over again—that’s undoubtedly a sign of just how priviledged it is—but if it makes things easier on him, fine.

He returns to the bedroom with a paper plate, almost smiling in disbelief at another sight of the figure tied to his bed. It’s sitting up now, back against the bed, still a little pink-faced but altogether looking calmer. The serenity on its pretty face is completely at odds with the lewd epithets covering its body. 

He hasn’t realized until this feeling that he had half-expected it to be gone when he returned.

“Food, meat.”

He lays the plate on the floor before it. Meat gazes down at it. A slow trickling of comprehension warms its expression. “There’s no fork.”

“Meat should be counting its blessings to get anything to eat at all. It definitely doesn’t need silverware.”

“I’m still not a dog,” Meat grumbles, slowly getting onto his hands and knees. It tucks its hair back behind its ears in a charmingly prim gesture, all considering, before digging in.

It only takes one bite before gagging and spitting out lettuce. “That _sucks_!” it says, before he can even start to worry that it might be badly hurt after all. “You’re a bad cook.”

“I didn’t cook it,” he flatly replies. “It’s gas station food. The kind of thing normal people have to eat.”

Its nose wrinkles. “Normal people food sucks.”

He wants to mash its face into the plate until it goes up its nose. Crack open its jaw and stuff limp lettuce and chunks of melon in its ungrateful spoiled mouth until it chokes on it.

Relax. Just a nine year old. All nine year olds are selfish and opinionated. This one more so than others, perhaps, but still just a dumb brat and if it does feel fear inside, this might be an act to hide it. “Don’t eat, then. But you’re not getting anything else.”

“Fine.” It sits up with a dirty glare that makes him wish again he had broke it earlier, chin thrust out stubbornly. “I’d rather _die_ than eat your... doo-doo food.”

We’ll see about that, he thinks grimly. He leaves the plate as he readies for bed—just brushing his teeth and double-checking the locks on everything. Leave it all night. Give it something to think about. Meat makes another attempt at resisting when he ties its hands together. Squeezing its forearms until they creak make it more peaceable.

A thin sheet will do as a blanket for it. A couch cushion as a pillow. If he didn’t have to he wouldn’t give it even this much, but he doesn’t want it falling asleep when he’s playing with it later. Meat stiffly accepts these things and curls up for him, muttering a ‘gross’ as he strips for bed himself.

He’s slow enough it can get a good eyeful. Not so much he’s obviously putting on a show. Too bad he’s not still hard. Give it something to look forward to and dream about. 

It’s the end of their first evening together, not even a whole day. His blood rushes through his body as he listens to Meat’s breathing, and the sleepily offered ‘good night’ he almost returns from habit.


	2. Chapter 2

He ignores it and its attempts at conversation the following morning. The things it wants to know don't matter and while it's still sticking its nose up at his food, there's no need to reward it with any more attention than necessary. 

It's a lot of ignoring. He quit his job a few days ago in anticipation of what he'd be doing right now and with no more than a few friendly acquaintances, he has nothing but time. Not even his father is aware of his existence, as far as he knows. His mother claimed to have never gotten into contact after the rape, believing it would have come to nothing, and he could find no scandal that contradicted her.

He still ignores the papers and TV. The pleasure it might give him is outweighed by the anxiety he knows it would; and the only one he's interested in is their daddy dearest, anyway, not the rich bitch heiress, other crusty old relatives, maids, or who the fuck ever they might stick in front of a camera to shed a few tears.

Evening comes. Meat is so sulky at this point that it won’t even look at him. He doesn’t care much. It’s not as though there’s anything else for it to occupy itself with; even if it ignores him, it must be thinking about him. How could it possibly think about anything else?

He lights a candle and turns off all but the bedroom nightstand lamp. “We’re gonna play a game, toilet.”

Meat wrinkles its nose but wisely makes no comment. It warily side-eyes him instead. “What kind of game?”

Meat is laying on a blanket, still unclothed except for its underwear. He considered taking that off too for this, but ultimately decided against it. This is his first time doing this and while he thinks he can avoid the face well enough, he doesn’t want to risk burning anything _too_ sensitive that might necessitate medical care. “We’re gonna play the ‘I’m sorry’ game.”

“Sorry?”

“Right. For everything you’ve done to me.”

“I haven’t done anything to you,” Meat says stubbornly. “I told you! If you’re mad at father—ow!”

Oops. He hadn’t intended for it to spill just yet. He forces his face still; doubt the toilet is even paying attention since it’s busy rubbing and looking at its arm where a few drops of wax landed, but he doesn’t want to risk it at all knowing he made a mistake. The timing was so convenient he can play it off as a punishment. “The more not-sorry you are, the more you’re gonna get.”

“Then I’m sorry!” the toilet yelps, trying to back away into the bed frame. There’s nothing sincere in its voice, of course. All it wants is to avoid the pain. That doesn’t really matter, either. This is more for himself than its education and he’s not concerned about hurting it outside the danger zones. He picked this candle (a few, actually) from a certain shop where things are made for this sort of purpose. The toilet will be sensitive to how hot it is, with its delicate thin skin, but its not like he’s pouring a scented candle from the convenience store all over it.

He grabs its ankle and pulls it toward him, baring its tender belly for his use. “You want me to believe a single word you need to make me believe it. Until then--” a dip of the hand, and a few drops more spatter around the toilet’s belly button. It reacts predictably, yelling and yanking its legs with all the strength it has, with not a single word of apology. More of the candle tips in the struggle, splashing along the hipbone.

It takes it as another deliberate action, and finally gets some semblance of an idea but this ‘sorrysorrysorry’ won’t cut it either. Apology requires thought and reflection. It’s still just trying to avoid punishment. He aims a little higher and watches it drip-drop-drip over its belly and ribs. One lands almost perfectly over a nipple. It provokes the toilet into such a blubbering fit that he can’t even make out that one word. Ah, well. He should have known it wouldn’t be able to take too much, but he’s still disappointed at how little stamina it is. Is this all it takes to make a little brat hysteric?

 _Ah_ well. On to the next step, then.

He keeps the candle raised threateningly as he fishes a small egg-shaped vibrator from his pocket. Toilet’s eyes don’t move an inch from the air; it probably hasn’t noticed anything else, even when the sound of the small engine starts running, up until it’s pressed against the crotch of its underwear.

Its eyes go wide wide wide, wet and shiny with tears, and almost entirely still. Its thighs clench rapidly against his hand. He can see its pleasure mounting. It couldn’t be more obvious if it came out and said ‘I feel good’. It’s visible on the sudden rapid rise and fall of its chest, the clenching turning into a shaking that travels up into its soft belly and convulsing muscles it doesn’t have yet, its mouth absently dropping open.

And right as it builds as high as it can without stepping off the peak he takes it away and tilts his other hand just a bit more. More wax splatters on its chest. Toilet makes a wobbly, drawn-out wailing noise mixed with pain and the loss of something it can’t fully comprehend yet.

He watches it gradually come down from the tempest it has been exposed to. Once it gets to the point it can focus its eyes on him, he begins scraping the wax off with his nails. He notes with distant amusement that its body shifts slightly to meet his fingers. Yes, its nipples are hard, and the crotch of its underwear noticeably damp, but those are autonomic things that it has no control over. This subtle following his touch is different. 

Once the wax is off his toilet and turned into little flakes on the floor he cleans up and makes sure it is nice and secured while he runs himself a bath. It allows him to check it over with such a subdued expression he considers a moment bathing it as well, to get any residue off, and for general hygiene. Instinct tells him that is a bit too soon, and he’s not sure if the thing he doesn’t trust is Toilet or himself. If he has to, he could tie it in the garage and hose it down, but someone walking by might hear it yelling without a gag. 

Pain in the ass. It can last another day. Besides.

He fixes another meal with some warmed-up burritoes and a fruit salad. Again he sets it down, sans silverware, and waits. It might eat if he leaves, but he won’t be satisfied with it saving its pride like that. “This is all you’re gonna get while you’re here. You should at least drink.”

Toilet gives him a look that might be a glare if it had the energy for it. Splotches of red stand out all over its body, like someone had slapped it after writing all those terrible things on it. “I’ll drink.”

He’s prepared for this, too. Giving it a bowl to eat out of is fun, but he can go a little further with drink. He debated from two choices, but this young it probably isn’t too far from its sippy cups to be humiliated much by those.

“Say ahh for me.”

It looks between him and the baby bottle filled with milk. “What is that?” it asks, in a tone of rising indignation. Its cheeks start to match the patches on its abdomen.

Almond milk. “Baby formula. For a bad kid like you.”

It presses its lips together. A fleeting glassy fragility crosses its pretty face, like it might fall apart and start sobbing again. “Why do you keep being so _mean_ to me?”

“You don’t think everything I’ve done to you has been bad, do you?”

It looks away, shoulders rising protectively to its ears. “It’s all bad. I don’t understand why. I don’t even know your name.”

He puts the bottle to its face and slowly, eyes closed and face blazing, it latches onto the nipple and sucks. So cute. Like bottle-feeding a kitten. It sucks very quickly once it starts which is probably how he’d do it. If you have to do something you don’t want to, at least get it over with instead of dragging your feet. Now if only he could get it to do the same thing with the food.

He watches more the movement of its throat than the bottle emptying. It doesn’t even have an adam’s apple yet. Just a smooth column of flesh he could put his fingers around and squeeze until it can’t swallow any more. “Done?”

It pops off the rubber with milk-smeared lips, turning away at the same time. It only nods, which is pretty impertinent in its position, but he thinks he’s made his point for today. Better to let it reflect on today and what it has learned.

For the rest of the night it is blissfully silent.


	3. Chapter 3

He walks around it a while, to see whether it will wake or not. It doesn’t even stir. Perhaps it’s tired after the other day, and general stress from the situation it has been thrust in, but it still seems careless to sleep so deeply with a predator about.

He is even able to pull its underwear down without it so much as twitching. But at least it gives him the opportunity to really look at how pretty it is even here. Its cunt is tiny, undeveloped, just a pink-white seam of flesh. He vaguely recalls that’s part of the puberty process... this young, the lips mostly stick together, especially on the outside. The labia, or majora, whatever the difference is, doesn’t really matter to him. The only thing he needs to know about its anatomy is what he’s going to do with it.

It’s almost as naked here as its underarms. Only a few downy hairs, white-blonde and next to invisible on the skin, betray that there might be something starting with his piece of meat’s inner workings. Good, good. The sooner they can start on that, the better. For now, today, he presses his thumbs to either side of the mound, pressing apart, letting the seam slowly unglue itself.

Inside is just as pretty and neat as outside. All the parts so minute and tucked away, more little seams of flesh a pastel baby’s pink, the bud lost somewhere in them.

He scoots in so close he’s breathing on its mound before he takes a small taste, just the the tip of his tongue pressing near the entrance he hopes soon to penetrate. Sweetmeats, he thinks, then sweet meat, sweet Meat.

He explores every nook he can find by feel, eyes closed, even though looking up at it is a pleasant view. Gradually the flesh beneath his mouth moistens and flowers ever so slightly as it fills with blood. His sweet little meat finally starts twitching a little; he can feel it in its inner thighs, and its pulsing sex. Maybe he’ll make it come in its sleep: that might be amusing, and serve as another way to guide it in the direction he wants.

Think about it. Wouldn’t it be cute to let it have what confused barely adolescent dreams it might have, with as little as it knows about sex and sensuality probably tied completely to him, and see it wake up trembling for something it hasn’t completely experienced? But before he can make up his mind, it starts to shift, rocking a little back and forth, legs trying to rise against his chest. It isn’t quite whimpering yet, smothered unaware half-sounds, and the more it wakes he feels it ripen with juice. One of those legs jerks suddenly into his ribs, barely noticeable compared to this cunt’s throbs and pulses he takes careful note of. It is awake now, squirming in place, not trying to get closer, not trying to get away. And just as those noises turn into gasped words of disbelief and its thighs try to squeeze around his head--

he pulls away. 

It might be even prettier like this than it had minutes before. Its tucked-away sex has bloomed as much as a little boy’s can, red and sloppy with spit and baby precome and aching—he can see it—the tiny button out now and begging for more. He had it so close.

It breathes as heavily as if it had run a mile straight instead of woken up to a little eating out; even its eyes are pinched shut, and its cheeks are just as dewy and red as its sex. They open slowly, still all squeezed. Between the morning light and tears, the irises are washed-out lilac, the same color as the walls in his childhood bedroom.

Mentally he pauses but his right hand reaches into his pocket before it can ask another of its insipid questions. The rubber grip immediately feels a little sweaty in his palm. 

When he pulls it out his toilet doesn’t react at all. It probably has no idea what a flogger looks like, even if it might know the word by passing, and it isn’t large or scary compared to other options. As with the wax, doing real damage isn’t the point. He can scare and hurt it plenty with just this.

He strikes with a hard flick of the wrist, smattering the falls against its vulva and open flesh. It yelps predictably, legs trying to kick but not closing. There’s a wavery tremble to its voice he doesn’t think is all fear: it lingers on and on, turning into a throaty whine. Another strike and it starts crying again, a meaningless ‘sorrysorrysorry’. Not a full-force burst like last time. It sounds like a kid that missed their afternoon nap. 

Very faint lines of pink mark its flat mound and sides. The inside is already so red he’s not sure he’d see anything there even if he struck it harder, but he’s amused a little to see the toilet’s cunt left its mark on the strands of elk. Spots and thin webs of wet.

“You like it, don’t you?” he says in an awed whisper, like the thought is only now occurring to him. “You like being touched here, don’t you? On your little boy cunt? Even by your own brother.”

Its eyes squeeze shut again, like in that way it can block him out. The faint little shake of its head is the kind one uses for shaking off a gnat. That won’t do though, oh it won’t.

He continues dressing it down in harder licks, ranging from inner thighs up to its unformed chest, but keeping mostly to the medium. The shell of flesh quickly turns just as dark a red with heat from the blows, and dewy from the inside. Each blow smears its baby juice all over its vulva.

Meat is being surprisingly obedient as it is forced to heed. He listens carefully to the rhythm of its breathing as it stops hitching with sobs, then evens. When it starts taking in deep lungfuls of breath, and its thighs rub together, he stops.

Its cunt is so puffy now he could probably bring it off with a single fingerstroke. He sits back on his heels and watches it keep breathing, nothing shivering now but its pussy with pulsing, with some curiousity. He wonders what its internal sensations are. His knowledge of things like this is purely objective. His experiences messing with Meat are his first, and he has never been flogged or anything like that himself. 

After a moment he realizes his breathing has fallen into sync with its, and speaks quickly to disrupt it. “You _are_ disgusting. But it’s alright, even so. I like touching you there as much as you liked getting it. We can be disgusting together.”

The day passes by in a strange mood. There’s no incessant talking from Meat, no pouting or whining or questioning. It doesn’t eat breakfast but he doesn’t press it this time. Honestly, it’s so subdued so suddenly it’s creeping him out a little. Maybe he should have let it wake up before he started. He’s pretty sure it’s the mix of pleasure and pain taking a toll on its body and mind, but maybe it’s something else?

Meat starts to warm up in the late evening, thankfully, though it remains quieter than it’d been. It drinks its milk without complaint, and is either hungry or broken-in enough to accept a bowl of dry cereal. It eats delicately with its fingers (ostensibly a reward) as it watches tapes he puts on for it; animated children’s movies mostly, leftovers from his own childhood. Watching them again, with his ‘brother’ is a mildly unpleasant feeling. In another life they might have grown up doing this sort of thing together—but then he’d be a rich snot-nosed brat too, and nothing is worth that. 

Not that there’s any worth in them being normal brothers.

The next three days he deepens the groove he has begun, always following pain with pleasure, pleasure with pain, and never allowing release. He watches his cunt acclimatize to being a plaything. On the next night it accepts his dinner—with more light complaining—and hushes when he tells it to, while regaining some of the liveliness it arrived here with. Not an intolerable mix, as far as children go.

On the sixth night Meat has been here, he has to tie its hands together during a recording of a newer show when it starts fiddling with itself. It is too ashamed to fight it. One look at its reddening face and you know it knew it was breaking a rule—not one that he had ever expressed to it, but the same old one it knew in society. Don’t touch yourself there. Don’t let anyone touch you there. It didn’t even argue about _him_ being able to touch him.

They don’t watch anything live. He doesn’t want to risk it seeing broadcasts about itself. At this point it might present an emotional setback for it he doesn’t want to deal with. He glances at newspapers when he goes out, heart pounding despite himself to see the notices and missing ads pinned on the walls of supermarkets. Blonde hair, violet eyes, nine years old. 60 lbs, 4’1, last seen at a friend’s house on so-and-so street... huge money reward. A woman who looks almost just like him but with huge fake tits looking all sobby but proud on magazines in the waiting lines.

He wonders if she really cares. If either of them do. Is the fact they haven’t found its body dead in a ditch yet a blessing or a curse? Do they stay awake at night with thoughts of what horrors it might be going through? And after all it has gone through, after all the ways it has been made filthy for the rest of its life, will they even want it back?


	4. Chapter 4

His pretty little cunt is finally docile enough for a bath, he thinks. Not that it’s working up too much of a sweat, or getting gross just over the passage of time, since it seems to be barely entering the fringes of puberty. But its skin is still a little tacky from the wax, and the graffiti he scribbled on it is losing its meaning as it fades away.

He runs the water nice and hot with bubble bath, in hopes that it will look so nice and inviting his cunt’s cooperation is all but assured. A comforting pillar of steam and soft bubbles... he’s looking forward to it himself, and he’s more of a shower guy.

Meat still lifts its head to watch him when he enters the room, but there’s a bleariness to its gaze that wasn’t there before. Most of it clears away when he starts untying its ankles. “Are you going to let me go?” it asks hopefully. You can just _hear_ how big its eyes have gotten. Pretty pathetic.

Not worth answering. He hmms a little to himself anyway, looking at the skin on its feet. It’s abrading and bruising. He might need to look into another way to restrain his piece of meat. Can’t have it getting hurt this early. What a nuisance. It wouldn’t be in this state if it hadn’t fought so much to start with.

It stays pretty still when he picks it up, which he takes as a good sign. He can feel the terseness in its back in that it doesn’t ‘melt’ and lean into him—it’s practically breaking its neck to keep its head off him at all, in fact. But it makes no sudden moves as he walks with it.

It doesn’t even turn its head to look around, even though this is the first time it’s been out of a single room. Is that a good sign? He hopes so; a week seems a little early to be so defeated, but it is a child. Maybe he’s getting paranoid... but considering the risks, better to be than not to be. 

A wave of indecision comes over him at the threshold to the bathroom. It’s not good to second-guess himself like this. Sooner or later he’s going to have to give it some leash just so he’s not on its ass 24/7 and driving himself crazy. May as well start now.

“A bath?” it says with some interest as he walks in. What makes him feel a little better, is that it’s so light even carrying it he can open the door one-handed easily. A slow cloud of humid haze drifts out.

“You’re starting to stink. And hosing you off in the garage is too much trouble.” Just so it knows that’s an option if it doesn’t behave.

“I don’t _stink_ ,” it grumbles.

He sets it down in the tub after a quick lookover. The steam adds a sort of mystique to its pale doll-skin and hair. The colour of its nipples lighten to the most delicate shade of pink, and likewise between its legs, where most of the day now the inner parts of its sex are swollen and puffed outside the tight seam of vulva.

It sinks into the water with deliberate pleasure, stretching out hands to toes and sighing. The bubbles are a frothy curtain around its naked shoulders, almost collaring its jaw. He shucks his clothing off with no formality. Even having his shirt over his face makes him a little nervous.

It’s not like he doesn’t have a plan if something drastic happens. If he accidentally kills it, well, that would suck. But he’d be able to move on with his life. If it got away he has a way to protect himself. But he’s not counting on doing that for a little while yet. 

You always hear about how even hardened murderers hate child predators. He’s not a pedophile in the truest sense—this is a crime of opportunity, nothing more—but he’s still kidnapped and molested a kid.

He takes his place behind it. It’s a bit of a squeeze, even with one of them so small. Its arms tense in resistance but one pull and it’s sitting on his lap. It squirms a little on him, rubbing its ass and baby parts along his cock. How much does it know about dicks, he wonders. Probably nothing, except maybe that they exist. 

The more it squirms the more it settles into a pattern and he realizes that it is _masturbating_ on him, whether it knows what it is or not, just chasing a sensation that feels nice the way it tried touching itself. He allows it long enough for his cock to harden (all of five seconds) and so it can feel the difference of having it between its thighs before he grabs its hips to still it. It makes a small noise that sounds like the start of a whimper, and his cock throbs in empathy.

He could just take it right here. It’d probably love to get fucked at this point. But it’s still not good enough. Not yet.

He wets its head down with a cup until it’s soaked through. Its hair barely darkens. For the first time he actually contemplates what their child might look like. This piece of meat is a paragon of beauty, at least for now, and he’s not an ugly man himself. It could have these silky platinum waves too. “Close your eyes, cunt.”

Its head ducks a bit forward, which he takes as a bracing gesture. For his part, he is careful as he lathers it up. He has no interest in making it cry at the moment, especially for something as petty as soap in the eyes. And he wants it more the way it has been leaning, growing comfortable with his touch. It’s a good excuse to ‘innocently’ feel it up too, while massaging down its body with soap. Nice and slow, so he can clean off all the marker and wax residue.

Down its back, twiggy arms, and front, palms rubbing into the nipples he feels bead against them. Its chest is pretty soft for a little boy. If he hadn’t done his research beforehand he’d have thought it might be a girl. There’s a more barely masculine adolescence to the feel of its ribs and the way they line down to its waist, but there, they widen out again, so it can carry the babies he hopes to foist on it.

His fingers dip into its slit, rubbing back and forth to wash it out. For a few moments it is like sticking them in a pot of honey, it’s so sticky. It’s clit squishes between his pointer and middle finger as he ‘cleans’. Meat’s thighs squeeze on his wrist so hard it hurts, and its head falls further forward. Just a few touches on its clitty. It’s making noises like it can’t breathe right. God. His dick hurts. Just a little more and he can make it come finally on his fingers, like he could have had it spreading its pussy open on his shaft.

Fuck fuck fuck. He yanks his hand out before it has the chance and forces it still again through another rolling motion. “I wanna go,” it says, in a soft, quivering voice. “It’s hot. My head hurts.” 

His cunt’s cunt sits heavy on his dick, hot and slimy, begging to be fucked. “Stop breathing in all the steam, slut.” They’re pulsing together. A little more stimulation and he might come into the bath water. And thinking too much of how needy his piece of meat is feeling, for a thing it doesn’t even now, is close to being all he needs.

Which means toilet is about a finger touch more away from exploding, he imagines.

He pushes it off his lap and onto its knees so he can finish washing it from the waist down without risk of anything premature. Then, up on the side of the tub. Its sex is visible and desperately puffy in its half-heartedly closed thighs. It won’t meet his gaze again but he sees it squeeze its eyes closed when he caresses its knee. “Want me to touch you again, don’t you, little slut?”

“No,” it murmurs, almost demurely even. Its legs open a little with pressure. The little core of it is shining wet. “Don’t be weird...”

“Only lovers _should_ touch each other there,” he says in an agreeing tone. “You’re a better man than your daddy, right? You don’t fuck just anything and anyone, right?”

Its expression shifts to one of vague confusion. “I’m not... I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sex.” There’s a surge of impatience he has to fight back. Being innocent makes it easier to play with, but harder to mock like this. “That’s why you’re not supposed to like anyone touching you there. I bet no one ever told you that, huh? Because it’s sex. Fucking.”

“Oh.” At the mention of what it’s _not supposed to do_ its legs tighten up again, but he’s done with there anyway. “Then father...”

“Touched my mother there without her wanting him to. It’s a little different from us, since you do want it.” The water rocks as he gets up on his knees, facing it. “But wanting it makes you a slut, especially since we’re brothers. That’s extremely slutty.” None of it makes sense to anyone with an ounce of logic, but meat isn’t in a state to refute him. Its head is too foggy with steam and new desires, and faced with too much knowledge it has been sheltered from. “You’ll still be a slut even if we get together, or marry” it looks surprised into some sort of cognizance from hearing a term it can actually comprehend but only stares at him mutely “but it’s a step in the right direction.”

Its lips move silently, but clear enough for him to read. _What is_?

He kisses it.

Even after its sudden change in lifestyle, barely eating and drinking, unable to brush its teeth, it still tastes sweet. Do all kids taste like this? Or is it another perfect facet of this unbelievably blessed being? He savors it as long and hard as he is able until it nearly suffocates on his tongue.

Its hands squeeze and push on his shoulders with childish fear, but after he stops, it rests its head on his chest as it heaves for breath.

The next three days he learns it in kissing, just by kissing it all the time. The hurtful punishments and games momentarily cease, though he plays the other ones, to keep its tensions high. In no time it begins to kiss him back as best it can, with its much smaller mouth. On the last night of the third day it sucks on his offered tongue as he carefully strokes its slit to quivering near-completion.


	5. Chapter 5

His sweet little piece of meat stays still for him as he lays between its legs. Its hair is so light and downy it’s hard to be sure... but he thinks more is growing in. Earlier in the day he sized it up and found it has grown two inches and ten pounds from what its missing posters claim. It couldn’t have grown that much during its time here. Probably it had a doctor’s visit for shots or something at the start of the school year, and that’s what that information is pulled from. It’s been about half a year since then; sometime in the following months it started the beginnings of puberty. And throughout the year it’s likely to grow a few inches more.

“When’s your birthday, cunt?” He had looked it up at some point, but the date meant nothing to him. He hadn’t picked up meat yet, and it wasn’t a cute coinky-dink, like they were a day apart or whatever. “I keep forgetting you’ll be turning ten, since you’re so cute and tiny.”

“June 9th. Everyone says that about mother, too.”

Right. The look-alike on the magazine covers. He’d found photos of her closer to meat’s age, picture days and something for academics in middle and high school. She really was a more feminine version of how her son will likely one day look; maybe that had something to do with getting the huge honkers. Or maybe she just got old enough to do something about her _maybe_ B-cup chest.

He spreads the lips as far apart as the tender flesh will allow and peers inside. He frowns. Within the proper canal, or at the entrance of it, appears to be the hymen. It’s not supposed to be a nearly solid sheet of flesh, is it? Not that he knows a lot about hymens... but he can’t see how a menstrual cycle would pass through these little dots. “Have your doctors ever seen you down here?”

It looks down between its legs as well, wearing an expression of strange contempt. “You mean the crube.. cribri... something. The doctor wanted to have me cut open when I’m older.” It shivers slightly, legs twitching to close. “I was going to go back in this year.”

Shit. So it’s a surgery problem? He clucks his tongue. He never cared about the possibility of tearing its insides while fucking it; with their differences in size and maturity, it seems inevitable even if he tried to only stretch it. But this is more ‘popping’ than he thought he’d have to do, and it’ll probably hurt and bleed more as a result. Imagine the shrieking. Maybe he can knock it out and cut it open? “The doctor didn’t tell you why you have it?”

“Noo?” it says uncertainly. “He said it just happens.”

He nods knowingly. “Because your parents were there, he couldn’t really say.” He slides his fingers up, and presses into the membrane. Meat hisses sharply. “Normal people only have a little here. Whores like you, though? This is a punishment to keep you from slutting around.” These holes should mean it is less structurally sound than if it was a whole wall.

Well, one way to find out.

He positions two of his fingers in place at the start of meat’s entrance and thrusts his fingers in one thorough, decisive blow. Meat screams once before he gets his palm over its mouth, but he lets it thrash around a little. The best antidote for pain is always to growl and swear, so it’ll make things easier if it gets it out of its system. And hopefully it won’t repair itself fully for when he actually wants to fuck it.

Eventually the violent humming against his hand stops, and it sobs helplessly, blood-smeared thighs pressing together and releasing, like even that little pressure hurts. He waits impatiently, but a good sport on the outside. It makes a weak attempt to bite his hand he reprimands with only a flick to the nose. He strokes its hair like an anxious cat until its sniffles cease.

“It would have been worse with your doctor,” he says once he thinks it’s in a state again to listen to him. It looks up at him from his lap with great big, shimmery eyes. “Do you really think they’d bother giving you medicine for such a quick thing? He would have done the same, or worse, with his penis.”

“Nuh-uh.” But its eyes slide away. “You told me that’s... that’s sex.”

“Sticking it in just once isn’t sex. It does make it easier for sex later, though.”

It sniffles a while longer before he wets a rag to clean it up. He washes the blood from its legs easily enough, but it flinches so much any higher that he has to settle for holding the rag against its sex and let it absorb whatever’s right there. The largest part of the flow at least ceases; there’s some continued spotting on another rag he gets, but it’s not like he can jam it up there to stem the blood. Anyway, too much cleaning might aggravate it more, and he’s wary of touching an area that seems it might get infected easily too much.

Some ibuprofen and a soak in the tub after dinner later, he thinks it’s basically back to normal. He fingers it a little, gently, and it puffs up readily, almost _eagerly_ really, as if it might forget its aches and pains in physical sensation.

He has it laying on his bed, where he doesn’t particularly want it, but allows as a special treat for the earlier pain, and to put it in a more pliable mood. He massages and lotions its bruises and marks between its baby slit until it looks as wanton as it ever has. In the middle of things he had to fold a towel under it so it wouldn’t leave a wet spot on his sheets.

Yes, it feels smooth as silk and sweet as cream... and as much as he hates it, he wants it so bad. It’s so tiny and pretty, so ready for its first fuck. His dick has been hard so often lately he’s a little concerned about somehow giving himself priapism.

He _can’t_ fuck it, not yet. Part of his mind tries desperately to justify why he totally could... but that line of thought is fueled entirely by the smaller of his heads. Doesn’t mean he can’t do something else.

So here he has it, whimpering and sighing on his bed, hips rotating in a delicious preview of things to come, when he takes his dick out of his pants. It’s so erect it’s swollen like a kind of ugly sausage that’s been in the microwave a bit too long, ready to pop. His pre-come is slathered all over the glans, and where it was resting in his underwear. “I’ve been touching you a lot where it feels good. Don’t you want to help me feel good too?”

It sits up on its elbows, with a questioning look, not uncompliant in posture. Relaxed. Open. “I don’t know how.”

“Just put your hands on it and move them up and down.” Just having it that close to its face might get him off. He’s not really looking to put it through an advanced tutorial. He comes up and sits over its chest, using his shins and thighs to hold his weight. “You’ll know when it’s done.”

Its hands are so tiny and soft. God, his dick is really in the hands of an innocent little boy. It stares between him and his dick as it pulls uncertainly on him. His liberal spilling of pre-ejaculate drip-drops on its undeveloped boy’s chest.

“That’s good. Just like that...”

The tip of its tongue pokes out the side of its mouth and, thus encouraged, he pulls faster, but still lightly, with his skin only touching his enough to transmit movement. It’s not much of a sensation but it’s still as much he needs to feel his rocks going off.

He spurts without warning or preamble, unloading what looks like a half-cup of spooge on such a small face. Most of it ends up over its nose, and slowly oozes off. It looks blankly shocked for a few moments before crying out ‘ew!’ and attempting to knuckle it all off.

“Did you pee on me?” For all he’s done to it, this may be the most disgusted he’s ever heard it. He can’t help but chuckle a little.

“Does this look like any pee you’ve ever had?”

“How would _I_ know what it is?”

“Stop messing with it. I’ll wash you up in a minute.” He’s never gotten his own spunk crusted on his sheets, and doesn’t plan to start. “Hold still.”

He kneels between its legs and pulls it up close to him, butt against his thighs. The movement of spreading its legs makes it wince, but that’s the only reservation it displays with showing the core of its body to him. So sweet and tender. Even soft he has a deep urge to stick things in it, fill it up until it cries, and experience how nice such plump, hot skin must feel... he continues fiddling it.

This time when it writhes and whimpers he doesn’t stop. Its belly rises and falls faster than he’s seen it yet, and a vague uncomprehending alarm enters its face. It has never been over this hill in all the times he’s played with it, never gone over the final crest. It mouths a word that looks like ‘no’ with shaky lips and grabs onto his forearm. If it is trying to push him off, he can’t feel it. Or maybe it knows at this point that dissuading him is a useless endeavor, and is only touching for comfort.

Its body explodes on him much like he had on it, but with far less composure. The trickle of moisture on his leg turns into a broken dam, as it convulses as if in the throes of electrocution. And the way it screams, somewhere indefinite between pornography and being murdered. Its fingers dig in so tightly now his bones hurt.

He strokes it through all that and more. After weeks of being continually left at the edge he’s able to effortlessly drive it through multiple hills of the same orgasm, or several different ones altogether. He can’t begin to guess how much time passes, only that the ball of his thumb hurts. 

Mercy comes only when it uses the last dregs of whatever strength it has left to jump back off his sodden lap like a caught fish, where it can’t even wriggle for freedom, but can only lay and await death. Its eyes are half-rolled into the back of its head and barely focus enough to glance at him. It’s a dirty little picture, all worn-out with its face slimed with come. If only its parents could see it now! He hadn’t thought to take pictures.

He carries it to the tub again soon after to rinse it off. It doesn’t speak much, besides a word of thanks when he draws the water. It doesn’t sound mad, or sad, or anything, except dog tired. But in the water it lays its head on the edge of the tub to be closer to him, and when he pulls the blanket over it at night, before he ties it back up, it kisses his cheek as his face passes by.

In his towel-covered bed he hears it call goodnight again.


	6. Chapter 6

Pain is still a useful tool. It provides an edge to the pleasure he makes it feel, and a healthy dose of fear to the affection he’s all but certain it’s developing for him. From time to time it is also a punishment. But for the most part over the next two weeks, it plays second-fiddle to how easily he can (or _could_ , when he wants to be mean, which is often) make it come. He takes some of his old furniture to be pawned off and sees less posters than he had before.

The past few days he has been vaguely concerned about it. For as long as it had been enjoying his touch now it’s suddenly pushing him away and complaining all the time again. “I don’t _want_ to,” it cried pettishly. “I’m _tired_.”

Maybe the stress of its situation caught up to it. Maybe it caught a cold. What he thinks most likely is that its body is finally going full-hog into the puberty process.

He tries to remember how things had been for him at that age. He started at... twelve? When he really became of aware that something was happening to him. It frightened him badly, the aches and pains and dreams he barely remembered that ended with him not wetting the bed, he knew, but still something that made him very ashamed when it happened. He did not trust his mother enough to turn to her. Sexual education at school would start only later in the year (and even then it took a while to get to things like nocturnal emissions). But she found out eventually. After a few months of this his sleep schedule turned unpredictable, slanted to either too much or too little, and one Monday morning he slept past the bus.

She hated acknowledging him even when she had to. For something like this that he should have been able to handle himself, it usually meant her hollering and stomping up the stairs, every nasty name in the world tearing out of her mouth. But she didn't then. She couldn't have; he would have woken straight up and put himself in order. All he can think of now is that she was going to surprise him with something. A kick in the nuts, maybe.

He came awake when the blankets were yanked off him, but was only aware of something wrong when the _screaming_ started. Nasty, filthy, dirty boy. He stared at her, blinking, uncomprehending, and noticed the wetness again between his legs that stained the front of his boxers.

The old bitch could out-scream a howler monkey when she was in a fit. When she bruised him it was because she'd thrown something at him. Once she slapped him when he accidentally (honest!) dropped a heavy paint bucket on her foot. Nothing that lasted more than a few days. 

But that morning she dug her nails into his arm so deep the skin tore open and dragged him downstairs so roughly he scrapped and knocked against every corner and wall, thoroughly mottling him.

She flicked the ash off a cigarette lying in the ash tray, twisted his arm above his head, and burned him with it just above the armpit. To this day when he sees the tiny, stretched and crinkled circle, he remembers that bright spot of pain and his hopeless attempt to avoid it by dropping his knees.

It ached for days, until it healed on its own. Of course she couldn’t bring him to the doctor for an injury she inflicted, but he never went at all unless he needed shots for school. That this little brat was so thoroughly taken care of they were even aware it had an obstructive hymen... if it had been him in the same position, it would have gone untreated until he burst with pent-up blood and fluid.

He doubts its parents really love it... how can a rapist and a trophy wife love anything? They’re just taking care of it like a purebred dog. But that’s still more than what he got.

He does not love it, either. But he needs it to love _him_.

So he pretends now and again to care when it whines about how its little bird bones hurt. He can find a way to use this, too.

He buys a pair of child’s pantyhose while he’s out.

“I don’t like my legs covered. They make me hot and itchy.” It stares at him reproachfully, as if he’d care even if he knew. 

“You really think you can just coast on by in life, only doing things you want? My dick has been hurting ever since you decided to hold out on me. You owe me it.”

“Well... I don’t see what this has to do with that, though.”

“Just put them on. I’ll show you.”

There had been tons upon tons of different styles of hosiery, though he skipped the opaque and star-spangled patterns automatically. The sheers remaining were mostly white, maybe for ballet or something like that. Even though white shows the pink tone of flesh beneath, black and red with hosiery are seen perhaps as too sexual for a child to wear. Then again, the store he could afford to go to was one mostly patronized by the lower-middle class and parents at least pretending to be sensible. Maybe high-class department stores are different.

It slips the nylon up over youthful legs, still pale and smooth with the down of hair yet to coarsen. It’s so blonde it won’t need to shave a while once puberty kicks in. The fashion is to be completely hairless even up to the inner thigh once that happens, but he can’t imagine anyone would be offended by these little glints of gold peach fuzz.

He takes out the velvet frock he stashed in the closet, and forces it over its head. All its been doing is gathering dust since there’s no way he can pawn something it was listed as last wearing, and anyway, that’s part of the appeal of hose-clad legs. Something voluminous and proper on top, silky sexy legs beneath. And the chance to get just a peek beneath...

And he has it looking very close to how it did when he first snatched it away. Eyes a little duller, hair a little longer. And the torn place between its legs. If he sent it back now he knows what they’d all think happened. 

“You kept my dress.” It fingers the hem, rubbing the material between his fingers and making the thick furry noise of velvet on velvet.

“You’ve been a good boy lately.” His tone turns lightly threatening. “You don’t want it?”

“N-no. I do. But what do you want?”

He unzips himself and pulls his cock out of his underwear. Even though he’s finally been getting off the thing he really wants---this little baby’s virgin cunt---is still teasing him with how accessible it is, and what a bad idea just yet. His cock aches like he hasn’t gotten off in years. “I want you to put your toes on this instead of your hands.”

It mulls over it for a moment. “Alright. Then I can take them off?”

“Then you can take them off.”

It raises its legs unsteadily, leaning back on its palms to balance the weight. The heavy velvet slips over its thighs and gathers between them, revealing the shadowy curve of buttock. The black-tipped feet press on either side of his shaft, a mite too hard. “Ease up a bit.”

“It’s harder than using hands,” it grumbles. Its toes glide clumsily instead, up and down with little pressure at all except their very touch. If this was a handjob it would take some not-fun hours to come. The sight is fun enough to make up for it. Cute feet in hose on his adult cock, only passing over his glans on accident. Eventually the soles are covered in glistening lines like a slug trail.

“My feet are gonna cramp.” Its toes pitter-patter on him faster, like that might coax climax along before it seizes up.

He grabs them both still (so small! he must be at least two sizes smaller than he had been the same age) and thrusts his cock in the space made by the curve of the arch. If this is even a third of how good its pussy on him will feel, he’s happy. Its feet are hot and moist, like a recently used pair of underwear. And he fucks them like he wishes he could do to it, until he has its knees pinned to its chest and he can see more than the curve of its butt, and its solid-black gusset. If he slid himself there instead he doesn’t think he could stop himself from ripping the hose and finally fucking it.

He releases through its arches, all over his shins and belly. It’s a momentary respite. 

“You got it on my dress.” It sounds like it’s going to cry. Little fucking spoiled brat. _That’s_ what’s on it’s mind? If he didn’t want a chance at impregnating it he’d choke it by its hose and just defile it as it becomes a corpse. “My dress... father bought it for the new year...”

He wrenches its legs apart and slaps it at the juncture of its body. It’s hotter, moister, than its soles had been, like the little slut was wanting something too while it was footjobbing him. It cries out, a surprised meep of noise, and fights back only with the ineffectual push of its hands. He slaps it again and again and each time it feels wetter until its yelps of pain turn into something else entirely. Its gusset grows shiny and sodden before his very eyes.

“If someone raped you,” he says with a softness that matches his derision, “could you really call it that?”

It gives no reply. The look on its face is sweaty, flushed, and helpless.

No, he thinks not. It would like it even if its own garbage ‘father’ touched it like this.


	7. Chapter 7

For a few weeks more they have each other’s hands and mouths supping sweet cream and milk to satisfy. Knowledge of what lies ahead still dangles temptingly within reach. And he knows his piece of slut-meat is starting to feel the same way, even if it does not know exactly what it is it wants to ask for. Now when he brings it over the edge it does not collapse in exhausted relief the way it once had. He sees its hips roll in futile movements, and its hands grasping on the blanket, releasing, grasping, in a lazy, barely conscious way. The babymaker between its legs stays all nice and plump for him.

Sometimes it pleases him to leave it like that. Other times he'll try to bring it off again, again, and delight in seeing that it is still not enough. Finally, at the end of another period of their time together, it shakes its head when he tries. “You’re playing with me,” it dares to say, with a voice as trembly and teary as its spit-slick bottom lip. “Stop playing with me.”

He could play dumb. He takes it as a sign instead. “You’re not big enough for me to do anything but play with you. When you’re ten... maybe then.”

“What day is it...?”

“Don’t worry about that.”

He has time to teach it until then. Its footwork is still sloppy. And he’d love to send it back home not only with a baby in its belly, but a throat flexible enough for any cock. He’s yet to get it even a third in before it gags (one time vomiting all over his dick, and did he get out the wax and flogger again for that? you bet your ass he did) but anything can be made more bearable over time. It should know that as well as he does by now.


	8. Chapter 8

He buys a plain cupcake at the bakery while he’s out getting a breath of fresh air. Today is his little piece of meat’s birthday, and he figures a little gesture like this, like he cares, will draw it even closer to him.

Nowadays his house is a pretty empty place to come back home to. He’s brought anything of his to the pawnshop he can by himself. There’s still some money he has saved from when he was working, but he wants to hold onto that as long as he can. Better to get rid of things first. He won’t need them later. Slut doesn’t eat enough that it’s very expensive, and obviously he’s not buying it clothes or toys. But there’s still bills, the rent, that he needs to pay on time. In a little more time he’ll be able to let them go, but right now he doesn’t need anyone coming around for anything.

It is curled up like a baby deer when he enters the bedroom, in the blankets he leaves for it. He can’t trust it yet around the place, not that it matters. Lately it’s been sleeping a lot and acting difficult, even when he tries to touch it. He doesn’t know if all the physical stimulation is wearing it down or if it’s from entering pubescence. The other day it came up another bit in height, maybe an eighth of an inch, and a pound that might just be water weight or something temporary like that.

It uncurls itself and sits up to look at him while he stares at it, trying to remember what it looked like when he first got it. Does it look any bigger than it had? Do its little bird arms look more defined, any stronger? He can’t really tell. Maybe if he’d taken a picture when he took it in he could tell the difference, but its changes haven’t yet been anything he can see by eye. Maybe something in the jaw or eyes have gotten more mature, but that can be easily explained by its experiences here.

He’s been helping it to grow up, after all.

“Today’s the day. I got you a little something.”

His mother had gotten him cupcakes when he was very little. Maybe back then she could stand him at least enough for that, or felt enough that she should to do it. Maybe he was easier to bear then. Just a cupcake, but that was all he needed from her then. He thought he could take that as proof that deep down she loved him.

“I know it’s probably nothing compared to your birthday parties.”

“No,” it agrees, but doesn’t elaborate. He supposes it has learned better by now. But as a spoiled kid it is still fairly opinionated and honest. The old current of anger goes through him, but it isn’t worth getting mad about it right now. In a way he’s getting exhausted too. Even more so that he can see the end of things, and is looking forward to it. To the end.

He watches it eat, somehow very delicately. The glazing of frosting doesn’t smear all over its face and all crumbs stay contained in the wrapper. It reminds him of the way it brushes its hair behind its ears when it eats. About halfway through, it suddenly looks up at him.

“Ariadne,” he… it, says. “What’s your name?”

The first time he saw its name he wondered if dear old dad didn’t know about him, after all. Is it just a coincidence that their names look so much alike? “Adrian.” Just one letter off. There’s no harm in answering it this far along, he figures. When he releases it, it’ll be good that it has a name to give, so they have more of a certainty of who did all these horrible things to it. Even if he impregnates it, even if they have it abort the baby, there will be a name.

“Adrian…” It sounds like it’s tasting the name just like the little crumbles of cake in its mouth. “My half-brother.”

“Yeah. That’s right.” Be sure to remember that to tell your _father_.

“Nice to meet you.” It keeps eating, like that isn’t a weird thing to say after all that’s happened. It’s for the best. If it can say that, then it must think positively of him despite everything. He’s had the effect he wanted to have. “And thank you.”

Soon after it curls back up to sleep. He pulls out one of its feet and plays with the little toes. So tiny! So tiny! His eyes wander up past its knee, toward its thigh. Is it getting any bigger inside? He wants it to enjoy being fucked as much as it has come to enjoy everything else he does to it, and it’ll be harder if he can’t fit. Leaving it shaking in fear and traumatized of him was always the lesser option. It’ll be disappointing if that, or just jerking off into it, is what he has to settle for.

**Author's Note:**

> ayyyy first work of the year


End file.
